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marched side by side forgenerations. Some years after the Sioux had dealt with Custer, two men who’d hunted the mountains and taken their stake to Texas bought cattle on the cheap and drove them back north into Montana as partners. But the partnership had severed, and each had claimed his own land, his own cattle, and built his own ranch.
    So there had been Mercy Ranch and Three Rocks Ranch, each expanding, prospering, struggling, surviving.
    And Jack Mercy had lusted after McKinnon land. Land that couldn’t be bought or stolen or finessed. But it could be merged, Willa thought now. If Mercy and McKinnon lands were joined, the result would be one of the largest, certainly the most important, ranches in the West.
    All he had to do was sell his daughter. What else was a female good for? Willa thought now. Trade her, as you would a nice plump heifer. Put her in front of the bull often enough and nature would handle the rest.
    So, since he’d had no son, he was doing the next best thing. He was putting his daughter in front of Ben McKinnon. And everyone would know it, Will thought as she forced her hands to relax on the reins. He hadn’t been able to work the deal while he lived, so he was working the angles from the grave.
    And if the daughter who had stood beside him her entire life, had worked beside him, had sweated and bled into the land wasn’t lure enough—well, he had two more.
    “Goddamn you, Pa.” With unsteady hands, she settled her hat back onto her head. “The ranch is mine, and it’s going to stay mine. Damned if I’ll spread my legs for Ben McKinnon or anyone else.”
    She caught the flash of headlights, murmured to her mare to settle her. She couldn’t make out the vehicle, but noted the direction. A thin smile spread as she watched the lights veer toward the main house at Three Rocks.
    “Back from Bozeman, is he?” Instinctively she straightened in the saddle, brought her chin up. The air was clear enough that she heard the muffled slam of the truck’s door, the yapping greeting of dogs. She wondered if he would look over and up on the rise. He would see the dark shadowof horse and rider. And she thought he would know who was watching from the border of his land.
    “We’ll see what happens next, McKinnon,” she murmured. “We’ll see who runs Mercy when it’s done.”
    A coyote sang out, howling at the three-quarter moon that rode the sky. And she smiled again. There were all kinds of coyotes, she thought. No matter how pretty they sang, they were still scavengers.
    She wasn’t going to let any scavengers on her land.
    Turning her mount, she rode home in the half-light.

THREE
    “T HE SON OF A BITCH .” BEN LEANED ON HIS SADDLE horn, shaking his head at Nate. His eyes, shielded by the wide brim of a dark gray hat, glittered cold green. “I’m sorry I missed his funeral. My folks said it was quite the social event.”
    “It was that.” Nate slapped a hand absently against the black gelding’s flanks. He’d caught Ben minutes before his friend was taking off for the high country.
    In Nate’s opinion, Three Rocks was one of the prettiest spreads in Montana. The main house itself was a fine example of both efficiency and aesthetics. It wasn’t a palace like Mercy, but an attractive timber-framed dwelling with a sandstone foundation and varying rooflines that added interest, with plenty of porches and decks for sitting and contemplating the hills.
    The McKinnons ran a tidy place, busy but without clutter.
    He could hear the bovine protests from a corral. Calves being separated from their mamas for weaning didn’t go happily. The males’ll be unhappier yet, Nate mused, when they’re castrated and dehorned.
    It was one of the reasons he preferred working horses.
    “I know you’ve got work to see to,” Nate continued. “I don’t want to hold you up, but I figured I should come by and let you know where we stand.”
    “Yeah.” Ben did have work on his mind. October bumped into